No Longer Critical
by Doktor Mandrake
Summary: V keeps a diary after his escape from Larkhill.
1. Chapter 1

January 1st

I've 'been a good little boy' and Santa brought me a diary! Seems Mr Claus neglected to check his list twice, cos if he knew how I got here, I doubt he'd have been so quick to pop a gift in my stocking.

But, the opportunity has presented it in so dear diary, you can look forward to my ramblings over the weeks to come. Coherence is not guaranteed – it's the painkillers, honest.

  
January 2nd

So, where to begin.

Almost two months after my escape from Larkhill, I'm still trapped. Trapped in a body that refuses to work properly. Trapped in a bed that I can't get out of. Trapped in a jigsaw of a brain that's missing several important pieces. But I'm finally starting to feel that there may be a light at the end of this seemingly unending tunnel. I can stretch my fingers enough to grasp a pen without wincing. Last week I managed to rest a book upon my chest without the pain sucking the air from my lungs. I believe the worst of the physical pain may at last be over and it's an odd feeling, I don't remember ever doing anything except hurting, but somehow I always knew that there had to be an alternative.

  
January 3rd

On my wristband it says 'Unknown White Male'. The nurses call me John. For all I know, that may be my real name, but I don't think so. In here, you're more identified by your ailments and your treatments than by a name or a face. It doesn't bother me – it's what I've always been used to.

My memory loss is being attributed to 'stress'. Physical wounds take precedence over the mental ones, as there's no point trying to heal the mind if the body gives up the ghost. The doctors have mainly focused on mending the body – it's far easier. Besides, the last time I talked to a psychiatrist I got the distinct impression that he thought I was lying. I'm scared that they know who I am, that they're just biding their time before sending me back. I think about running away, but deep down I know that this broken body wouldn't carry me very far. No, I'll cross that bridge if I come to it.

Damn it, I've spent too much time thinking about Larkhill and my mind's running away with itself again. They think I'm dead, surely they must think I'm dead. If they thought I was alive they'd have been here by now.

I wonder if the fire was on the news? I've no idea if it was a relatively public facility or somewhere top secret. Maybe I've got lucky, maybe no-one's supposed to know it exists, maybe that's why nobody's come looking for me.

  
January 4th

When Bill stumbled across me, half-dead in that river and still within staggering distance of Larkhill, he thought I was done for. Said so himself. All he wanted to do for me was end my pain, just as he would for a wounded animal he had no hope of saving. And right at that moment, I'd have been happy for him to do so. Yes, I was finally free, but the price I had paid was severe.

"We need to get you to hospital, lad"

Quandry. The last place I wanted to be was anywhere near another doctor. Ever. But, I wasn't going to be able to enjoy this hard-won freedom if I was dead. Valerie would not have approved, would not have accepted me giving up, so I complied. So many times during my time here, I wished I'd chosen the grave. To stop existing, to feel nothing, to feel no pain. But it was too late for that – on that November night I did as I was told and allowed Bill to take me to hospital. My only input was to request that he take me to London rather than Salisbury as he originally intended. I didn't want to be anywhere close to Larkhill. Deep down, I may have been hoping that the longer journey would give me time to succumb to my injuries, but it was not to be.

He agreed, thank god. I remember him soaking his coat in the river before wrapping me in it and helping me slowly up the hill to his Land Rover. I was so tired, I've never felt so tired. I assume I must have passed out when we got to the car as I remember virtually nothing of the journey. Only when we got to the hospital – I remember lots of people fussing around me, being lifted out of the car and put on a stretcher. Bright lights in my eyes, a breathing mask clamped over my face, glimpses of masked people wielding syringes and bags of fluid. I kept trying to fight them off and god knows what obscenities I was screaming.

  
January 5th

The staff thought I'd be lucky to last twenty four hours. They cleaned me, wrapped me in cooling sheets, filled me with fluids and did everything they could to make me comfortable, but I had the distinct impression that they were just trying to make my passing as easy as possible. It warmed my heart to see real compassion. Something in their manner soothed me so I calmed and willingly submitted to their treatments. I had to be intubated not long after I arrived, my throat was swelling up so much from the burns, so I couldn't speak. A pretty young nurse sat with me for hours that day, just talking to me about nothing in particular. Giving me a voice to focus on. Wiping away my tears when the salt water touched the burnt flesh of my face and made me wince.


	2. Chapter 2

January 6th

I stood up today.

My doctor told me it was time to stop feeling sorry for myself and get my arse out of bed. It was frightening. Struggling to sit up in bed, hold myself up without help, and lay back down without hurting the burns on my back is itself a daunting task so I'll admit I've been trying to stay as still as possible, in fear of the additional pain that movement causes. But today, encouraged by the doctor's reassurances, I was determined to overcome it. He helped me swing my legs out the side of the bed and let me lean on his shoulder as I stood up. It hurt of course, but the pain was tempered by the overwhelming sense of achievement. It changes your whole perspective, looking at the world from a vertical six foot whatever I am, rather than from flat on your back at bed level. Today, for a few minutes, I was a person, not a patient.

January 7th

Where was I…

I surprised everyone by actually waking up from my morphine-induced sleep the next day. The doctors were amazed that I was still alive, telling me that survival with burns as extensive as mine was almost unheard of. The body simply cannot cope with the shock of what's happened to it and shuts down completely, faced with too much repair work for it's meagre resources. Many patients with head and neck burns suffocate - strangling as fluid rushes to the burn site swelling their necks and cutting off their air. That one fact rather justifies the decision to let Bill take me to hospital, I feel. Maybe, just maybe I could have dealt with everything else by myself, but choking to death would have been an unavoidable and deeply unpleasant way to die.

Anyway, the subtext of my prognosis seemed to be 'you're not out of the woods yet sonny' but they were willing to do what they could for me. The first doctor who saw me was amazed to find that I still had all my fingers, although my toes apparently hadn't fared quite so well. I was lucid – I could see, hear and had been speaking (well, screaming abuse I'm told) before they tubed me. He explained to me that the first three or four days after being burnt are the ones that count, the ones where the body is still in massive shock and desperately prone to infection – if I could make it through the next few days I'd probably survive.

They moved me from A&E into a small room in the burns unit, kept away from normal hospital traffic for my own good. With little skin to keep bad things out, a germ-filled emergency room was the last place I needed to be.

For those vital first few days they kept me as comfortable as possible. Lying on an air mattress, tube down my throat and all manner of drugs being pumped into me, I was pretty much a vegetable. On the third day I developed pneumonia and the simple act of breathing became terribly hard work, every breath requiring actual thought and effort. I thought that was the beginning of the end, but it started to improve the next day and on day five they took my breathing tube out, leaving me with a far more agreeable oxygen mask instead. Finally, I could speak.

Thus began my long journey back to physical 'normality'. All I know in my life is hospitalization, willing and unwilling. All I've ever felt is pain. I long to find out what 'normal' feels like.

January 8th

I wonder if, when I was three years old, I was as proud of myself for using the toilet unassisted as I was today.

I got out of bed, I walked slowly to the bathroom and I had a pee. Standing up, like a man. And then I walked back to my bed.

Rather determinedly, I'd pulled my catheter out a couple of hours earlier - a cunning plan to stop myself from chickening out from my chosen mission. Given a choice between pain and embarrassment, give me pain every time.

The bathroom isn't far, maybe 30 steps away. My room is at the far end of the ward, away from the open beds occupied by the less severely burned patients. I looked up the corridor toward them on my return journey, but will save that particular expedition for tomorrow.

Nurse Claire says that they'll start feeding me normally now that I'm moving about and, not to put too fine a point on it, able to get to the loo. Real food. She said not to get too excited, joking that hospital food isn't exactly gourmet cooking, but I don't care – it's bound to be a million times better than the slop they fed to us at Larkhill. Even the rats turned their noses up at that.

January 9th

Shouldn't have looked shouldn't have looked shouldn't have looked shouldn't have looked shouldn't have looked shouldn't have looked shouldn't have looked shouldn't have looked shouldn't have looked shouldn't have looked. 

January 10th

"_The face is the mirror of the mind, and eyes without speaking confess the secrets of the heart.__"_

January 11th

Nurse Rachett told me off today for not eating. She says I'm too thin and they'll put me back on the drip if I don't start taking solids again.

Thin. As if that's the first thing people notice about me. I've been thinner, it didn't kill me then and it's not going to kill me now, more's the pity.

January 12th

In the burn unit, where wound care takes place in soundproof rooms, even the most brutally injured avert their eyes from the face patients.

"Burned beyond recognition." Who hasn't heard these words and shuddered?

A person with severe facial disfigurement is a long-running character in our collective subconscious. In literature he is the Phantom of the Opera, Johnny Got His Gun, the English Patient. In popular books and film, he is Freddy Krueger, and the Man Without a Face.

He is a projection of our darkest fears. But he is also, stripped of all vanity, our most essential self.

And now, he is me.

January 13th

A new psychologist came to see me today. Dr Abbot, I think her name was. She looked me in the eye but I suppose she's used to it, working around here. Like the nurses.

I got a sound telling off for my recent actions - apparently I was supposed to wait for some lackey to hold my hand while I regarded my reflection for the first time. I can't see that making any bloody difference, it wasn't going to make that thing staring back at me any easier to accept.

She talked at me about my current physical condition, taking me through the challenges I'm likely to face. A particularly poor choice of words, I thought.

She told me that when a face is altered or destroyed, the psychological consequences can be severe. For patients, fears of rejection and abandonment are common and realistic. Realistic. No sense in sugar-coating it, is there? If I can't bear to look at myself, if other patients in a burns ward are repelled by my appearance, what chance is there that normal people are going to be able to deal with me?

Moving on to my other issues, I could tell I was frustrating her. I don't remember much and most of what I do remember, I couldn't tell her. Too risky. I'm sure she thinks I'm making it all up, trying to hide who I am because I'm in some kind of trouble. She kept trying to catch me out, going over the same questions again and again from different angles, waiting for me to slip and confess that I'm really Jim Smith, a chartered accountant with a wife and two kids back in Chelsea. Well I'm sorry dear, ask all you like but you're not trying anything I haven't already tried myself. Trying to catch my own mind out with a questioning offensive has been an almost daily occurrence since that morning that I woke up and couldn't remember who I was. Past tense – whoever I was, I am not any more. Who I was is becoming less and less relevant as every day passes, who I will become is what concerns me more.

I've started to eat again. All I want to do now is get out of this place, and that's not going to happen until I'm fit enough to do so under my own power. Tomorrow I'm going to do ten laps of the ward, and any of the half-melted freaks along the corridor who don't like it can go fuck themselves.


	3. Chapter 3

_Reviews would be appreciated. Of course, nothing belongs to me, including the Singing Detective who gets a look in near the end of this chapter._

January 14th

I feel I should write all this down while I still remember it clearly.

The first surgery was 'simple housekeeping' – cutting away the burnt and dead tissue to ensure that I didn't succumb to infection. They applied several skin grafts taken from cadavers, not designed to replace my skin permanently but to keep infection out and give me a chance to do what healing I could underneath them. Daily bandaging and unbandaging was 'too disturbing for the underlying tissues' apparently. Well I'm sorry Doctor, but I found having a dead man's skin stitched into mine a little too disturbing for my underlying sanity. I really wish they'd asked me first.

Thankfully they're long gone now. Rejected within days and suggesting to the doctors that my immune system may be rather over developed. That explains a lot.

The bandaging continued for a couple of weeks or so. It wasn't really that painful, a blessing of having burned most of my nerve endings to buggery. No nerves means no pain. The only areas where I could feel anything, at that time, was around my eyes and my left ear – is it still your left when you only have one? – inside my left elbow, the palm of my left hand and around my inner thighs and private parts. Those areas represent the twenty per cent of me only that got a partial thickness burn and thus still had sensation. Mainly a sensation of agonising pain, but sensation nonetheless. Why did those parts fare better than the rest of me, you ask? Simple enough - just before I triggered the explosion I buried as much of my face as possible into the crook of my elbow, protecting my eyes and one of my ears. I had Valerie's letter balled in my left hand, clenched into a fist as tightly as I could manage - more in an effort to draw the required strength from her than in any real hope of protecting it. My other hand, after throwing the detonator, was used in an attempt at protecting my other favourite parts. In retrospect, it would probably have been better utilized further north but instinct is instinct.

The worst thing about the majority of the bandaging was seeing how much of my skin was coming off with them each day. Surgery had removed the obviously dead tissue, but plenty more was slowly giving up, coming off in lumps where the bandages had adhered to it. I tried not to look, as the sight of it made me feel sick, but it was perversely fascinating seeing myself falling apart before my very eyes. Curiously detached too – my brain telling me that is should be hurting but it generally didn't.

The partial thickness burns hurt like hell though. I couldn't see my face but I knew it was badly swollen because I couldn't open my eyes properly. Every time the doctors changed my dressings on these parts, it was as if they were ripping off my skin. The air hitting the open burns was enough to make me scream. Cleaning the wounds with water would send me into a rage. It is safe to say I would have rather been back in the fire than go through a daily dressing change.

Lying in bed, sick with pain and doing a credible impression of Tutenkahmun, I was approached by a doctor who said I was an excellent candidate for a new form of treatment.

The kinds of burns I suffered over most of my body are among the worst imaginable, as they destroy all three layers of skin. These are burns that can't heal by themselves. The only solution is to graft them with skin from other parts of the body. But I didn't have any skin left to graft with, so the proposed solution was a technique devised by an Australian scientist where new skin cells are grown and literally 'painted' on, giving the body something to work with to re-grow tissue.

He was quick to point out that I was never going to grow fresh perfect virginal skin, but that it was really my only option if I wanted anything other than a lifetime spent in bandages and short-lived patches of synthetic skin. So I consented.

I'm tired now. Did eleven laps of the ward today as well as some physio and a plate of shepherd's pie. Will write more tomorrow.

January 15th

So I was an experimental subject once again, but this time I had been asked and had consented. Fortunately this country still has the National Health Service, and I had no qualms about costing the government as much money as was needed to repair me. I think they owe me that at least.

Cells were taken and a week later, I was scheduled for my first operation. The plan was to work on my back first, as it's an area that's comparatively easy to keep immobile. Plus, if the treatment was a success, being able to lie comfortably would make the remaining surgeries easier to bear.

The first day was alright. Lying on my stomach, still woozy from the anaesthetic, with delightfully cool dressings covering me from neck to bottom. I felt a bit raw, but nothing I couldn't deal with.

Day two, things started to hurt. The doctor was amazed to see how quickly the new tissue was starting to form. He reassured me that the pain was a good thing – it meant that there was some level of sensation returning.

I had considered myself quite skilled in the handling of pain and discomfort. After all that I went through at Larkhill, after all the treatments I'd already had here in hospital I thought I'd experienced the worst pain the human body can create. I was wrong.

Day three, and I was in agony. Absolute complete total agony. Getting burnt in the first place had nothing on this. My skin and its nerve endings was growing back at an accelerated rate, and the pain was such that I became completely unraveled. Fortunately the same nurse who'd sat with me that first night was on duty, and she knew how much pain I had to be in – screaming until my lungs were fit to burst when previously I had lain quietly and dealt with it. They put me on a cocktail of narcotics and things went gloriously soft and fuzzy for a couple of days, before they started to cut them down and the pain returned, albeit with the edge very much taken off.

It was about a week later that the agony had subsided to merely 'painful' and I was off the narcotics and feeling vaguely human again. The doctor was extremely impressed with my skin growth – it was angry red and white scar tissue, paper-thin and weeping, but it was the required barrier between the outside world and my insides, and as such was considered a great success.

He was keen to continue with the treatment, raving about how he would have me on my feet by the end of January at this rate, so I consented for a second operation on the understanding that I'd get the narcotics earlier in the healing process this time.

Four more operations after that, working a limb each time with only a couple of days recovery time in between them, and he was finished with 'phase one'. Screw that - I was done full stop. Done with being drugged out of my mind, done with pain, exhausted from doing nothing for weeks except try and heal myself. I just wanted to sleep for a while.

Of course, it wasn't that simple – the grafts were just the first stage of the healing process. Natural sleep was a rarity because of the wound vac - a slang medical term that will give me goose bumps for the rest of my life. You see, where the new tissue was struggling to grow, a suction device was placed over the wound order to increase blood flow from underneath. These devices are called wound vacuums, and they ensure that the tissue does not die, but rather joins with the new skin to create a layer of dermis where none would have grown without the graft surgery. It feels like a leech, a constant sucking on the most painful abrasion you've had in your entire life. Multiply your worst skinned knee by 50, add it to 80 percent of your body, and then let someone suck on it with a hoover for 24 hours a day; only then will you know what it is to experience a wound vacuum on a fresh skin graft. Every inch of each graft received a dose of the painful sucking and not until three weeks after the final surgery was I free from the noisy machines.

January 16th

My face was really hurting today so the doctor gave me a couple of steroid injections, one in my forehead and one in my right cheek. The scarring is so bad that it has to be a high pressure injection in order to permeate the dense tissue – the damn things hurt more than the pain they were supposed to alleviate. But I'll admit that several hours later I'm feeling a little better and hopefully I'll get a decent sleep tonight. Apparently these type of flare ups will be common for the next few months – they say I can have the injections in my face because it's a cosmetic issue, anywhere else it's down to moisturizer and massage. They've started me on antihistamines to try and calm things down, if they work I'll be staying on them for years. Well at least I shouldn't have any trouble with hayfever when I get out of here.

Nope, I still can't sleep. It's about one o'cock and terribly quiet out in the ward but every time I try to nod off my brain just starts thinking about my sore old face. It's not so bad when I'm distracted, but I've finished my book and can't go and get another one til the morning so I'm just going to have to ramble to you, dearest diary.

Claire, my main nurse, is about my age. Blonde and petite with the most gorgeous brown eyes. Don't worry, it's not the cliché 'patient falls in love with nurse' story, I'm just very fond of her. Okay, maybe I've got a bit of a crush on her and maybe I try and impress her now and then, but I don't have any illusions that she could possibly find me attractive. Of course, this crush is a terribly unfortunate position to find oneself in when the object of one's affections has to apply moisturizing grease to your slowly-healing second degree burns.

Let me tell you, having a nubile young nurse handling your private parts on a daily basis is a tortuous mix of agony and ecstacy.

From the second she'd don her plastic apron and latex gloves, my brain would start going into overload with anticipation of what was to come. She'd help me struggle out of my pyjama bottoms and then I'd lie there completely exposed as she delved her hand into a vat of cream, scooping out a generous handful and rubbing it between her gloves to melt and warm it.

"Just relax, I'll try not to hurt you" she'd say, starting to massage it into my inner thigh.

Oh god. Think of something boring, think of something very boring. A speech, no… tax returns… a Welsh male voice choir…. Songs Of Praise… Antiques Roadshow… Readers Digest special prize draw….

It would hurt and I'd wince - she'd apologise, asking 'was that too hard?'. Hard? No, no, not hard, come on brain, back to the Guardian crossword…

She'd move further north, the inevitable would happen and I'd apologise profusely, explaining that it was one of the few parts of me that still had any feeling. Of course, she'd be entirely professional whilst I lay there thanking god that I could no longer visibly blush, partly willing her to finish as quickly as possible, partly enjoying the sensation despite my embarrassment.

These days I'm fit enough to moisturize my own private parts, and find it much easier to look Claire in the eye.


	4. Chapter 4

January 17th

Today, I was measured in places I didn't even realize I had. They're making me a pressure suit, a garment I'll need to wear for a year, maybe two. It's designed to control the growth of scar tissue, something they've been concerned about over the last few days.

It seems that my body, bolstered by good diet, exercise and reasonably natural sleep, is trying rather too hard to heal my skin. The doctor's worried that if this progresses I will grow inflexibly thick areas of scar tissue that will completely ruin the range of motion that I've already worked to attain.

The suit, complete with pressure socks and pressure gloves, will take care of my body but what of my face? Not to be left out, I had the singularly unpleasant experience of breathing through a straw for twenty minutes while a cast was taken of my rather battered features. Lucky me, I get a pressure mask as well. I even got to choose the colour, so I opted for white. Phantom of the Opera, here I come.

January 18th

They say that I should be discharged next week, provided I don't suffer any setbacks. Nurse Claire asked where I was planning to go and I had to admit that I didn't know.

I have no identity, so legally I don't exist. If I have a family out there, I don't remember them. Without an identity, I can't get a job, not that anywhere is likely to hire someone in my condition. I really don't know what I'm going to do for money. 

The one thing I've managed to rationalize is that I don't imagine anyone's looking for me now. If they were going to find me, surely it would have happened in the first few days after the fire. I know at least one person saw me emerging from my cell, at least one person knows I made it out of there alive. Missing, presumed dead I suppose. Hell, even if they do ever find me, they'll have fun trying to ID me. I shall avoid the police as best I can, but I daresay I could walk right past Rossiter in the street and he wouldn't be any the wiser.

January 19th

Imagine jumping into a swimming pool and just before you hit the water, realizing that you can't remember if you know how to swim or not.

Physiotherapy was in the pool today and me being the over-excited idiot I seem to often be these days when confronted with something new and fascinating, took a running jump into the deep end. Fortunately it transpired that I do know how to swim, but I couldn't keep my mind off the experience for the remainder of the hour's physical therapy.

How many other things do I know how to do, but don't know that I know?

January 20th

Claire said it was sunny today and suggested we take a walk in the grounds. She brought a blanket for me to wear around my shoulders and was even considerate enough to find me some sunglasses. I seem terribly sensitive to light these days, the harsh fluorescents outside my room often giving me a headache if I linger too long within their glare.

The cold air made my skin tingle, the freshness assaulting my lungs most pleasurably. My sense of smell seems to slowly be returning… I don't really know where it went or why, but it's coming back gradually and the smell of damp grass was most intoxicating. It reminded me of my garden at Larkhill, once again being the scent of potential freedom.

Claire held onto my arm for the entire journey and I welcomed her support. Simply being outside for the first time in almost 3 months was strange enough, but what frightened me was the prospect of being seen by other human beings.

Revulsion, I can deal with. I feel the same way every time I see myself in a mirror, so I can understand those who look at me and immediately look away, disgusted by what they see.

Fear upsets me. I've seen so much of it in the small amount of my life that I can actually remember. I know how fear feels, I hate to think that I'm inflicting that feeling on others simply by being.

Pity is the one that gets me. I do not want to be pitied. Not for the way I look. By all means, pity me for the fact that I was abducted from my life, pity me for the torture I have endured, pity me for my missing past cruelly taken from me for no reason that I can fathom. But do not pity me because I am a burned man. That was my decision and I do not ask for anything other than acceptance.

January 21st

My second skin arrived today. A one piece affair made from a mix of lycra and neoprene, it is approximately flesh coloured with a hood and its own feet. A zip down the front allows for entry and exit, whilst another zip allows for calls of nature to be dealt with without the need for complete disrobing.

Two pairs of gloves, one with full fingers, the other half-fingerless for when one requires precision use of their digits.

The technician who had created the suit assisted me with the first donning. A liberal dusting of talcum powder is required to actually get it on, and it is so tight that it makes one stand very stiffly. It's almost as if I could relax my muscles completely and the suit would hold me upright regardless.

Once fully zipped up, he spent some time poking and prodding various parts of my anatomy before having me half-disrobe whilst additional padding was stitched into certain areas, namely under the arms, an area which is apparently very tricky to get right.

When fully zipped up again, he turned his attention to the hood, mercifully liberating my relatively undamaged ear by cutting a hole in the neoprene. On the other side, where there's really very little left of my right ear, he made a smaller hole so that I could hear better but would still benefit from the pressure on my skull.

Apparently scientists have grown a human ear on the back of a mouse. He was of the opinion that I wouldn't have to wait very long until I could have a living replacement. I just felt sorry for the mouse.

The final piece of the outfit was the hard mask. It's white with a fairly matt texture facing the world, a smooth resin surface on the inside. Eye holes, a prominent nose and a slot for the mouth. Completely blank and expressionless, it looks a little like a hockey mask. I held it against my face as he pulled the two elastic straps tight around the back of the hood, where they are held in the correct position with a patch of Velcro.

Yet again, I looked in the mirror and did not recognize myself.

As I write this entry, I've been wearing my new outfit for several hours. It's strangely tiring, being pressed against unrelentingly for so many hours. I have a terribly sore head, unlike any other I can remember, but I am persevering with this diary in the hope that I become tired enough to fall asleep wearing my new face.

In the late afternoon, I ventured into the hospital grounds again and found the reactions of passers-by hasn't altered much. I had hoped that with the mask hiding my ruined features, the looks of revulsion would stop, but it seems that the human imagination is quite capable of summoning up the horrors that must lurk beneath. If anything, it seems to dehumanize me even more – they seem to find it easier to stare at me when they can't see the effect their staring is having. Others just blanked me completely. I don't look human therefore I am not worth acknowledgement.

I didn't stay out there long, returning to the solitude of my room where nobody judges me.


	5. Chapter 5

January 22nd

Today I had yet another appointment with the Kathy the mistress of pain. I tell you dear diary, the only thing that separates physiotherapy from torture is the intention.

Now that I'm securely wrapped up in my second skin, I have to up the ante from the simple moving, stretching and swimming I've been doing to date, and start to really work on getting back as much mobility and fitness as possible. She had prepared a set of exercises which I am to do every day without fail – stretching up as far as I can, bending to try and touch my toes, windmilling my arms around. All designed to stretch the scar tissue that masquerades as my skin, and all deeply uncomfortable. The pressure suit hinders movement somewhat but also provides blessed relief and goes some way to preventing the feeling that my skin will simply split open and my insides find themselves spilling on to the floor.

Kathy's a harsh teacher but also very good with the encouragement. She said I was doing exceptionally well compared to other patients. I wonder if the experimental nature of the skin treatment has made it easier for me, or if I'm just willing to endure more pain than others.

My strength is improving almost daily, in fact I'm now lifting weight appropriate for a man of my age in full fitness. How old am I? For the purposes of my ongoing life, I've decided that I'm the same age as Valerie - 25 years old. Anyway, Kathy has had me lifting weights for some time in an effort to regain the muscle tone lost by my extended period in bed. I'm hardly a walking definition of fitness but I see people who look to be in far better condition than myself struggling with far smaller loads and I wonder if batch five did something more to me than just heighten my senses.

January 23rd

I spent a lot of time today thinking about the future. In two days time I am to be set free, on my own in the world for the first time that I'm aware of.

I don't remember who I am, where I lived, where any of my friends or family may be (assuming I had any, I certainly don't remember them). Was I married? Did I have kids? I have absolutely no idea.

Every food I eat is a new experience. Every face I see is new to me. It's strange how so many things seem completely new, whilst so many others are already firmly lodged in my mind. For example, I know that with no ID I'll receive no money, there are few options for me other than to try and find some work and earn a little, or to aquire money through other means. How do I know that? How can I not know my own name, but have a reasonable knowledge of how the English benefits system works?

Dr Abbot put a name to my condition today – Retrograde Psychogenic Amnesia, affecting only the Episodic Memory. What does that grand title actually mean? Let me explain. 'Retrograde' is obvious enough – I can create new memories, I just can't access the old ones made before a certain point. I can remember what I was doing one week ago, but not one year ago. 'Psychogenic' – there was, as far as I am aware, no physical damage done to my brain that caused the memory loss. Severe head trauma would be the normal cause of amnesia, but that doesn't seem to have been the case for me. I couldn't share this with the Doctor, but I constantly wonder whether something they gave me at Larkhill may have been responsible? Or it could be - as she suspects – for some reason I'm choosing not to remember. Well if that's the case, I'm still blaming those bastards – I'd have no reason to try and forget myself if I'd never been in that hellhole.

The 'Episodic' bit is the most interesting. I learned that there are essentially three components to memory. Semantic memory is knowledge of the world, facts, language, concepts - general knowledge, if you will. Procedural memory is knowing how to do things, skills you've learned, that sort of thing. Episodic memory contains experiences, people, faces, names and so on. This all goes some way to explaining how I can not know who I am, but know how to read, write, swim, eat, converse... How I can know the words to songs I hear on the radio, but not know where I first heard them.

January 24th

The hospital's Salvation Army liason came to see me today. A kindly old lady by the name of Doris, she called me 'son' and did a good job of ignoring the mask while we chatted about this and that. She had me stand, told me off for not eating enough (I suggested the pressure suit acts as a full body girdle but she wasn't convinced) and then proceeded to choose some clothes for me from her box of cast-offs.

A pair of grubby white training shoes, worn but sturdy jeans, a couple of t-shirts with witty slogans and a large grey woolen jumper with several holes in it. It's too big for me, but she insists I'll need it when I finally get outside. All to be worn over the pressure suit, of course. She nodded approvingly when I was dressed and said that she'd have a look downstairs for a hat.

Several hours later she returned, proudly clutching a mountain of tweed. She had excelled herself, not only finding me a black woolen beanie hat, but also a long red scarf and a most superb grey flecked tweed trenchcoat. The sleeves are a little short, but it's warm and will stave off the worst of the cold. I thanked her profusely and she gave me a small card with the address of the shop on it. She knows where I'm heading and wished there was more she could do to help.

January 25th

I write from a bench on Brook Green.

Early this morning, I gathered my things and said goodbye to the staff of Charing Cross Hospital. My meagre possessions consist of the clothes I am wearing, this diary, Valerie's letter and a large carrier bag filled to the brim with painkillers, antihistamines, blood thinners and skin ointments.

A very strange thing happened as the receptionist completed my discharge papers. My signature was requested and I signed without thinking. I didn't even hit me what I had just done, not until I was outside. Of course, I pulled out my copy of the papers immediately and tried to read what I had written but alas, my signature is an illegible scrawl. The first letter looks like a 'D', though it may be an 'O' or even a 'G' or a 'Q'.

I have the address of a local homeless shelter, the hospital suggested I try there for some help with my situation, so I shall visit this afternoon. Right now I am just sitting here watching the world go by – cars, buses, people walking quickly wrapped up against the cold. It's not bothering me much, the wonder of just being outside, being free to come or go as I please, is warming enough.

January 26th

I wear a hard plastic pressure mask 24 hours a day to minimize scarring. It will take at least a year to really know what I will look like when I've fully healed. The hospital gave me a choice of colours. Clear is the conventional choice but I went for white in an effort to hide the carnage beneath.

People stare.

Children don't know any better. I assume they see me as some kind of monster, but I can deal with that. I don't care..

I kept my head down. "Got burned. Got burned". I mumbled it like a mantra as I made my way through the crowds, answering the unasked questions. I said it to keep people from staring. But the glances kept coming, frank and curious, sly and horrified.

I went to the Hammersmith shelter, only a short walk from the hospital, a place supposedly existing to help lost souls such as myself. The woman at the counter asked for a photo ID without looking up. Then she glanced up at me and quickly down again before muttering that I needed to fill in forms, thrusting them toward me, eyes boring into the desk.

Forms which I couldn't fill in, because I know literally nothing about myself. I could have lied, but there's no point. I just wanted to find myself a hole to crawl into.

I wandered north, through Shepherd's Bush, past White City. No matter how busy the street, people got out of my way.

With no money, I can't buy any food and I can't pay for anywhere to stay. So my first night in the real world was spent here, huddled under the looming metal umbrella of the Westway.

January 27th

Freedom. It's terrifying.

I cannot go anywhere without people staring at me as if I'm some kind of freak.

The mask is a blessed relief in many ways. Yes, people look at me and quickly look away, no doubt imagining the hell that must reside below, but it's preferable that they're disgusted by their imagination rather than my real face.

Tonight's dinner came courtesy of Pizza Express. There's a reasonably large restaurant near the top of Queensway and they throw out a lot of food. I can't believe I'm eating from the bins. It might taste better than Larkhill slop but the slop was somehow less demeaning. Crazy, I know, but that's how I feel.

Another cold night awaits me. I've aquired some cardboard boxes to try and build myself a mattress. My coat keeps the worst of the cold out during the day, but it is no match for the bitter London wind once the sun has gone down.

January 28th

Today as I sat in the park, mask off for a few minutes to get fresh air on my face, two men in expensive looking suits threw coins at my feet. They thought I was a beggar…

January 29th

Minding my own business in the park today a couple of young boys, maybe about 16, set their hearts on relieving me of my meagre possessions.

I didn't see them coming, but the second that the first one grabbed at my bag, I had my other hand around his wrist. A sickening snap was heard and he screamed – only then did I realize that I had broken his wrist. I didn't even feel that I had applied that much force.

His friend, enraged by what I had done to his partner, pulled a flicknife from his jacket and raised his arm as if to stab me. I saw the whole thing happen almost in slow motion so I simply stepped to the side and landed a punch to his stomach, which saw him doubled over in pain. I pocketed his knife and quickly left the scene.

I don't know if I've ever been in a fight before, but it was exciting and strangely satisfying. Empowering even, being the victor rather than the victim. How I snapped that kid's wrist so easily I have no idea.

January 30th

I might have forgotten who I was, but I feel that I am still a man of principles. God knows, I would be happy to work for a living, to make an honest wage and pay my way in the world, but it's an option which has been almost completely taken from me. Bloody government, they take my mind, they take my body and now when I'm willing to comply with their rules like a good little citizen I'm presented with a big fat 'no' at every turning.

I can see why so many of my fellow vagrants resort to theft and petty crime – with no help from the government, with no ID, no permit to work, how else is one supposed to survive? Begging? Scraping through the bins for morsels of food, like I've been doing these last few days? Freezing to death on the streets like the old man I found this morning? No big deal, one less dosser to worry about, nature stepping in so the government doesn't have to.

January 31st

It's been raining solidly since last night and I can't remember ever being so cold. My clothes are all soaked through despite my efforts to shelter. I daren't move, the chafing against my skin is almost unbearable. Everywhere itches. I'm so hungry but searching for food would mean moving. Dear diary, if this turns out to be my last entry then I hope that one day you end up in the hands of someone who's responsible for the state I now find myself in.

Congratulations. You did your best to kill me with your torture and your beatings but I wouldn't die. You used me as a lab rat but I wouldn't die. You took my mind, took my sanity but I wouldn't die. You forced me to burn myself alive and still I wouldn't die. I hope you're happy, cos it looks like after all that it's your bureaucracy that's going to get the better of me, with a helping hand from mother nature. Fuck you. I swear here and now that if I die tonight, I will haunt you and your kind for eternity.


	6. Chapter 6

February 1st

I write to you today from the ironically named Buena Vista guest house. The only vista I can see from my window is that of Sainsbury's loading bay, but no matter – I have a room. The paint is peeling from the walls and there is a distinct aroma of dampness, but the bed is firm, the sheets reasonably clean. By the window there is a small wash basin, and by the door a table and a chair, from where I now write. In the corner, a tiny shower room with a toilet, all hidden by a grubby curtain. This slice of heaven comes at a very agreeable forty pounds a week. No questions asked, no ID required. The woman behind the counter didn't even look up at me – usually I would have taken that personally, but here I imagine it is the norm. No names, no faces.

Sixty pounds remain in my pocket. I wonder if the objectionable man who taunted me in the street this morning has missed his wallet yet? I wonder if he'll work out that it was me who took it? I do hope so.

It's late and the bed is calling me, inviting me with open arms. Tomorrow I shall bathe and eat. Tonight I only crave sleep.

February 2nd

Shopping trip. The discomfort of the whole experience was easily countered by the joy that my purchases have brought me today.

Toiletries. A bar of plain soap, toothpaste, my own toothbrush.

Clean socks, fresh t-shirts, bargain jeans. Crisp new underwear.

Digestive biscuits. Tea bags, milk and sugar.

And my luxury item – a white fluffy bathrobe. Fifteen pounds worth of cotton heaven, harsh on the budget but oh so gentle on the skin.

So, I sit here at my desk, freshly showered, wrapped in my heavenly cloud, feeling the relieving coolness of the ointment slowly seeping in to my dry and abused skin. My tea cools, rogue Digestive crumbs floating on the surface from an imperfect dunking.

Finally, it all seems worth the fight.

February 3rd

I have made a decision.

This world is clearly not going to allow me to live in anything approaching normality, and you know what - that is fine with me. If it wants me to exist in the shadows, if it wants to deny that I exist, then it may, but I will use the shadows to my advantage.

I got a buzz from stealing that man's wallet. I want that buzz again. So tonight, I intend to go out and see what else I can steal. I shall become a modern day Robin Hood, robbing from the rich to give to the poor. Namely, me.

I think I am clever enough not to get caught, but dear diary, if one day I suddenly stop making entries then so be it. Black bagging, prison, torture, death – none of it scares me - been there, done that, got the scars to prove it.

February 4th

So dear diary, I'm sure you are dying to hear what I got up to last night?

Well, nothing as epic as my rather grandiose previous entry may have implied, but I did liberate the contents of a few of Sainsbury's cash registers. And a few tasty treats from the shelves.

It was just so easy. Far easier than enduring the looks of the masses were I to try shopping in the normal way. But with cash now lining my pocket, I do need to venture into the daylight world again today. A visit to the launderette is required as the old second skin isn't at it's most fragrant any more.

…

A delight. While my laundry was spinning, I followed my nose to the fish and chip shop across the street. Battered cod and chips, with salt and vinegar. What an experience! The first thing I've ever eaten which truly made my mouth water, declaring my sense of taste truly rejuvenated. I sat on a bench, my lap filled with newspaper and hot food, largely oblivious to the disapproving looks of passers-by.

The chips were crisp on the outside, fluffy in the middle. The fish crumbled easily into morsels small enough to fit through the mouth of the mask. Crunchy batter, moist fish, the tang of vinegar stinging my tongue… I didn't know food like this existed.

February 5th

My scars are still healing, and while I live in this second skin for 23 hours out of every 24, there is also the matter of attending to cleanliness and moisturising.

I've already found that if I neglect the latter for more than a couple of days, I pay the price. The skin stiffens up and becomes prone to cracking, which is painful at the time and itchy when it's healing. If I don't moisturize my face and neck it can become quite uncomfortably tight, hindering speech and facial expression. It's silly really, stuck behind this mask, no-one can see whether I'm smiling or not, but the habit of moving one's face is just too deeply ingrained to stop.

The former isn't as big an issue as you'd imagine, given that I'm wearing the same bodysuit, day in and day out. It seems I can't sweat very effectively at all, something that may prove interesting come summertime.

February 6th

One cannot embark on a new career without an appropriate wardrobe. So last night I undertook a little shopping trip in the large department store several streets from here. Security was poor, as seems to be common these days. Really, they should realize that the sort of man who is happy to break into their store and steal their goods is unlikely to stay at home just because of the late night Norsefire curfew.

Starting in the gentleman's section, I filled my holdall, first with practical garments – black combat trousers, black polo necked jumpers, hooded sweatshirts, that sort of thing. A very expensive black woolen redingote rather took my fancy, so into the bag it went. I see no harm in being a dapper thief, and I must confess, it's cape-like quality rather entertains me.

The footwear department yielded a pair of combat-style boots which suit my purposes perfectly. Temporarily forgetting that I had no intention of paying for any of this, I was drawn towards a sign proclaiming '50 off all gloves'. Black leather in a couple of sizes, as I'm undecided on whether to wear them over the pressure gloves or to abandon those while I'm 'working'.

I had hoped to find a balaclava or perhaps a suitably brimmed hat that would help shadow the whiteness of my mask, but came up with nothing but another beanie and a baseball cap which really isn't me. Maybe I should paint the mask a darker colour?

My (mostly) practical shopping done, I took a wander around the rest of the store looking for things that took my fancy. Not a lot, just a few things to improve my humble abode – a small transistor radio, some books, bed linen, that sort of thing. I was wary of the need to carry my goods home without attracting attention, so vowed to come back for the rubber plant another day, satisfying my horticultural desires with a small cactus instead.

Returning home in the small hours, there was no sense in trying to sleep, the flush of criminal success leaving me quite wired. So after a cup of tea I tried on my new ensemble and regarded myself in the mirror. Dressed from head to toe in black, I feel somehow more powerful. The figure looking back at me no longer looks like the pathetic shell I sometimes feel I have become – he looks like he means business. The skin coloured pressure suit makes me look underfed, black makes me look lean. The coat makes me feel good. There's something about huge swathes of fabric that move around you that makes you feel strong, makes you stand up straight. With coat in place, beanie pulled down over the top of the mask, I dare say I look quite sinister. And for some reason, that pleases me.


	7. Chapter 7

February 7th

Last night I paid another visit to the department store, with the sole objective of extending my library. I have a voracious appetite for literature at the moment, both fact and fiction, and with so much spare time and my irregular sleeping pattern I'm getting through books at an alarming rate.

I swiped a large rucksack and filled it to the brim with all manner of titles, hefting it onto my back rather painfully as I realized how much pressure it put on my shoulders. This was distracting me somewhat, to the point that I didn't notice the security guard until he shouted at me to stop where I was. Of course, I didn't – I fled, coat billowing behind me like a ludicrous cape, rucksack chafing like an utter bastard. Everything had gone strangely slow motion again, just like when those kids tried to mug me in the park. Very, very odd.

This evening I'm going to take a jog around the park and see if I can replicate this strange sensation.   


February 8th  


I was already aware that the experimentation performed upon me during my Larkhill tenure had improved my reflexes and heightened my awareness of the world around me. Dr Stanton described it as basic kinesthesia, the ability to sense the position of objects in relation to ones self. I can feel it all the time, just an awareness of where things are without needing to see them. If you stood behind me, I'd know exactly what you were doing with your arms, for example. When coupled with my rather sensitive hearing, it's a rather annoying barrage of information when I'm in a busy situation, be that busy with people or something as innocent as the bushes moving around in the breeze.

My reflexes may have certainly been heightened, but they're backed up by un-natural speed. When the need occurs, the whole world seems to go into slow motion whilst I remain at normal pace, which can only mean in reality that I'm doing things terribly quickly. The other night when I legged it from the security guard was a prime example – I was gone, just like that. I traveled a much longer distance than should have been possible in the time. I don't really understand it and will have to try and get my head around this phenomenon and see if I can make it work for me.

I don't think that's everything though. Now that I am recovering and physically active once again, I find my strength seems to have increased far beyond that which seems to be the norm. For my slight frame, I'm able to lift, throw and punch far harder than seems possible. This isn't just me not remembering what it's like to be fit, it's something un-natural. Like when I broke that boy's wrist, I really didn't even have to try.

February 9th

One of my latest acquisitions is a 'pay as you go' mobile phone, stolen for the sole purpose of ordering take away food.

There are so many exquisite flavours out there that I must try, but going to restaurants isn't really an option for me. But a flash of inspiration led me to the Yellow Pages and armed with my phone I've started to work my way through the alphabet of local eateries.

The little tin foil tubs arrive every night and excite me immensely. This evening I had a curry – just a mild one, plenty spicy enough for my taste buds. Light, fluffy rice, creamy sauce, wonderful little onion thingies and warm naan bread. Very good indeed, and currently vying for the number one slot in my 'food top ten'.

February 10th

I'm wondering if I need my eyes tested. I can see perfectly well but I find bright light is terribly offensive, it makes me squint and I've been getting headaches whenever I'm subjected to it for too long. I noticed it in the hospital (I don't really remember if it was the case before, my cell was pretty dark and a light-induced headache was the least of my worries when I was in the medical testing labs) and it doesn't seem to be getting any better. Trouble is, with this bloody mask on I can't wear sunglasses. They'd never stay on the nose and anyways, I've really only got one ear for them to sit on. Maybe I could tape them on…

The trade off seems to be that my night vision is rather good. Give me anything short of pitch black and I can see quite happily. Even in true darkness I generally manage not to bump into things if I concentrate. A useful talent in my chosen field, no doubt.

At least at this time of year the nights are long and the days short. My sleeping pattern is rather erratic – if I've been out I often return in the small hours far too wired to get to sleep and will spend the remainder of the night reading or otherwise amusing myself, finally getting a few hours rest during the day. Sometimes I don't sleep at all – on some occasions I don't feel like I need it, others I crave sleep but my mind won't let me have it. I lie in bed begging my brain to shut up and let me rest but it never does, so I'll end up listening to the radio to distract myself – friendly voices talking about stupid things to blank out the far darker content of my own psyche. Reading is too much effort when I'm that tired, I can't even keep my eyes focused let alone hold a book up.

February 11th

Earlier today I met an old man going through the bins at the back of John Lewis – he was looking for food whilst I was having a sly look at the security. He joked that Halloween was several months away, then asked if I had any money for a cup of tea. Feeling flush from my recent thievery, I proffered a ten pound note, on the condition that he purchased one for me as well.

A man of his word, he returned promptly with two polystyrene cups from the nearby cafe. My drinking technique seemed to greatly amuse him – with the mask on it's all about knocking things back as you would when drinking shots. Looks ridiculous, I'm sure, and of course has to be done when the tea has cooled sufficiently to avoid burning the tongue.

Being a civilized chap, he introduced himself as 'Bob' and this made me realize that I don't actually have a name. I went for the hospital's 'John' for the duration of our chat, but it made me think. In fact, I've thought of nothing else for the last few hours.

I don't feel like a 'John' and the only repeatable name I was ever called at Larkhill was 'Five'. It was on my cell door, in the form of a roman numeral V. So I've decided that 'V' I shall be. A letter, not a number. I've been rolling it round my head for some hours now and it feels right. Suits me… well, suits night-time me anyway. I like night-time me, he creeps around in the shadows defying the law, worrying about very little. Daytime me I'm not so fond of, he's easily scared, spends too much time letting other people upset him, gets worked up about things that really shouldn't be so stressful.

God, reading that back makes me sound like I'm quite deranged.

February 12th

  
Had a different Larkhill dream last night. A change from the normally scheduled programming of torture, rape, pain and death.

I was back in my cell, crouched in the corner surrounded by fertilizer and grease, the stench of merging chemicals burning the back of my throat with every breath I took. It was dark, the only light being the weak glow from under the door. My perspective moved, I was no longer inside myself but up in the corner of the cell, looking down upon this desperate figure huddled against the wall. His lips were moving in a silent prayer as he carefully folded a small piece of paper over and over and over until it almost disappeared. He pulled his knees tight to his chest and rested his head upon them for what seemed like an eternity, breathing deeply and evenly. The head rose and as he reached for something with his right hand he looked me straight in the eye and winked before burying his face in one arm and blindly tossing the object toward me.

I woke up in a panic, roasting hot and hyperventilating. I ripped the mask off and had an increasingly violent argument with the suit, wanting nothing more than to be free of its constraints. Finally unleashed, I climbed into the shower and stood until the water went cold.

Unable to get back to sleep, I was forced to contemplate the content of the dream.

I thought I was going to die. I was ready for it. I'd go as far as saying I was looking forward to it – peaceful blackness, an end to all things. The way I had designed the explosives there was really no chance that I'd survive, having to be so close to ground zero by necessity of being the trigger.

When I came to, lying on the scorching concrete surrounded by flames, I thought I was in hell. Had to be. Only when I prised myself from the floor and took in my surroundings did it hit me – I was still alive. You'd think I'd have been grateful but no, all I felt was rage. It was pure rage that got me to my feet, pure rage that got me out of the remains of the cell block, pure rage that guided me through the burning maze of the medical section and out into the night. What did I have to do? What did the gods want from me? Why were they doing this to me, why could I not just rest? I remember raising my arms to the sky and roaring, damning the gods for ever creating this hellhole of a world. Laughing at the insects I could see all around me, running in terror from this hellfire of my own creation. 

That intoxicating feeling of power ebbed away as I stumbled into the night, replaced by the crushing reality of my situation. 


	8. Chapter 8

February 13th

Excellent shopping trip last night. In the heart of theatreland, near Covent Garden, I found a little costume shop and couldn't resist taking a look inside.

Wigs!

That's right – wigs of every style and colour, outrageous wigs, sensible wigs, nasty synthetic wigs, luxurious natural wigs, everything an unwilling skinhead like myself could possibly desire.

To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what my natural hair colour was. It was all shaved off at Larkhill and of course is now long gone, never to return. My remaining eyelashes are a sort of light brown so that's my best guess. No matter, I liberated a few hairpieces to play with – a scruffy blond short one, a shoulder-length dark one with a fringe and a rather Einstein-esque grey 'mad professor' one. Hey, it amused me, so I took it.

I'm wearing the blond one as I write, having just bathed and enjoying my daily hour of liberation from my second skin. Regarding myself in the mirror, I look just a little more human with this scruffy mop atop my head. Of course, it won't fit over the hood but to be honest that's been getting on my nerves lately and I've been stuffing it down the back of my coat when I go outside. I can't turn my head properly with the damn thing on, and with this mask I really do need to move my head around more to see where I'm going. My 'spider sense' does a fine job of making up for the lack of peripheral vision, but I still worry that I'm going to end up under a bus if I'm not careful. But I digress.

The dark one is beautifully sleek, but I'm not sure it's 'me'. Maybe I'll try it with my work clothes later on, but the scruffy blond is definitely more in keeping with my daytime wardrobe. Albert just looks daft, but I think I could tame it into a convincing 'old man' hairstyle. Add a stoop, walk with a shuffle, get myself a walking stick and I dare say I could pass as an old codger. Might be useful for something. 

February 14th

Valentine's Day. I wonder if anyone's missing me.

I wonder if I'll ever know love.

I confess, dear diary, I'm writing tonight through something of a haze. Too much schmaltz on the radio, too many posters in shop windows proclaiming that we all need that special someone. My date for the evening is clear and sharp and goes rather well with ice. Part of my mind tells me it's a blatantly commercial holiday and reasons that I should feel no worse than any other day, but feel sorry for myself I do and that's that. I know nobody in this world and nobody knows me. I probably need to make an effort to meet people, but how can I just go up to someone and talk to them? A man can only cope with so much rejection.

Fuck Larkhill, fuck them for turning me into this… thing. Fuck you Valerie, why did you have to give me hope? I read your letter again today and all I want is to have roses, and I know I never will. Fuck pain, fuck this pathetic attempt at skin. Fuck you V, blowing yourself up was such a stupid idea. The fucking vodka's all gone and I've got no bloody cigarettes left.

February 15th

In truth, my face isn't any worse than the rest of my body.

But it's the one part of me that can't be hidden, not in the 'normal' world. Our faces are how we identify ourselves to the world, and how the world identifies us. To be "two-faced" is to be distrusted. And it is no coincidence that a synonym for shame is "losing face."

The difficulty with burn injuries is that, like a fire that smolders, damage accrues to the face long after the initial burn is over. One of the ways the body heals is by contracture, drawing the sides of a wound together. The response probably evolved millennia ago as a survival response to the types of injuries sustained by our forebears. When a wild animal has torn your flesh apart, the best way to heal that injury is to close it as quickly as possible. The mechanism, however it evolved, doesn't serve burns very well. It makes grafted skin contract and shrink, especially in the crucial T-zone -- the eyes, nose and mouth -- where most of our expression happens.

As I study myself in the mirror, I swear I can see my face getting worse as the days pass. Despite my daily facial gymnastics, there is still such resistance if I try and open my mouth really wide. My top lip is so tight I can barely move it, just speaking normally pulls all the way up my cheek to my right eye. Try as I might to raise a non-existant eyebrow, I just can't do it. An attempt at a big smile leaves me feeling as if my entire face is going to crack.

It still hurts to do normal things, even bending my knees to sit in a chair sends pain up my legs, but I've learned to ignore it all. I'm so used to the way my skin aches, including the itching and burning I feel every second, that it is as if I never really feel it anymore. My mind has blocked it out and unless I stop to notice it, the sensitivity and uncomfortable nature of the healing grafts isn't even in my thoughts.

I hope so much that my diligence with moisturizing and the painful exercises I do every day will eventually pay off and while I'm never going to be pretty, I will at least win the fight for mobility.

February 16th

Roses. They might be from a florist rather than grown by my own hand, but the message is the same. A token of my appreciation to a woman who gave me some pretty memories and showed that some people in the world actually care. I hope they raised a smile in the grimness of the burns ward.

As Valerie explained to me, everyone should have roses at least once.  


February 17th

  
The Dog and Duck is a pretty dingy drinking establishment, but dingy suits me. It's a local haunt for society's undesirables such as myself, and so I fit in rather well. I've overheard the barmaid referring to me as 'freaky mask guy' - refreshingly honest of her, I thought. I've been frequenting the Dog of late, as it's an excellent place to make a few pounds selling on the spoils of my late night shopping trips, though I do have an unfortunate habit of drinking a little too much of my profits. I know what you're thinking dear diary, but spare me the lecture. Besides, I generally prefer to stay on the merry side of the drinking curve, and it doesn't take many ales to get me there. According to the regular clientele, I'm something of a 'lightweight' so I don't think you need to worry about my disappearance into an alcoholic stupor any time soon. I get to talk to a few people - funny how they suddenly decide they don't mind your appearance when you offer to buy them a beer – make a few sales and if I'm lucky there'll be someone new to beat at darts. None of the regulars will play me any more you see, not even if I handicap myself by throwing left handed.

February 18th

10. 'Death by Burger'. Must try harder, I appear to still be alive.

9. Kebab. Preferably served after lager.

8. Pizza – specifically an 'Italiano' with plenty of mozzarella.

7. Sweet and sour chicken, Hong Kong style.

6. Spaghetti Bolognaise, but only if it's from that little place in Fulham.

5. A new entry at number five for Beef Chow Mein.

4. Lamb Palak. The spinach means I can pretend it's good for me. 

3. Fish and chips. Not too much salt, plenty vinegar.

2. Chicken korma with pilau rice, coriander naan and onion bhajis.

And holding on to the number one spot for the second week running, ladies and gentlemen…

1. Kow Soy. Noodles, chicken, beansprouts, baby corn, those funny little crunchy onion things. Heaven in a promptly-delivered polystyrene tub.

February 19th

Today I dressed in my best and visited the Tate. The security guards looked at me very strangely but after an hour or so they seemed to accept that I wasn't there to try and steal their paintings.

In fact, I wouldn't have taken their paintings if they'd paid me. I may be suffering from a most spectacular case of amnesia, but I'm pretty damn sure that the biggest gallery in London should have some paintings I've actually heard of. A Picasso perhaps, a selection of Turners, a Bacon or two, a little Blake… no, nothing. There was no art, only propaganda masquerading as art.

Where has it all gone?


	9. Chapter 9

February 20th

Today, feeling rather guilty about not having done it sooner, I bundled up some clothes and visited Doris' shop in Hammersmith. All the clothes she'd given me I'd laundered and packed, along with some new things that I aquired especially. I'm doing alright for myself wardrobe-wise these days, and I feel that someone else should get the use of the bits she'd kindly gifted to me a month or so ago.

She seemed genuinely pleased to see me, and said it had been many years since a handsome young man had brought her flowers. I got a little upset by this, so she made me a cup of tea and we had a long chat, during which I just spilled out all sorts of things. I'm sure I wasn't always so emotional, things just really get to me these days. I felt like such a fool, venting my innermost to someone who's almost a perfect stranger, but it was rather cathartic and she assured me that it wasn't uncommon. All of 'her boys' go through tough times and while there isn't much she can do to help, she's always there to listen. Gives her something to do since she lost her husband, she said. Such a sad image.

February 21st

I saw Fat Man today.

He was one of the guards at Larkhill. I didn't see much of him during my stay, only in the first couple of weeks before I was moved to the medical section. But it was undoubtedly him, dressed in a Securicor uniform sitting in a van looking bored as he waited for his colleague to return from whatever he was collecting or delivering to the post office. My post office, just a couple of streets away from the guest house.

My gut reaction was to drag him out of the van and beat the shit out of him right there in the street. In fact, it took all of my willpower to resist the urge. Use your fucking brain V, you don't start a fight with an armed security guard in broad daylight on a busy street.

Subtlety is key. I know where he works now. I can find him if I want to. Do I want to? I've been thinking about it ever since this afternoon and the answer is yes. I don't know what hurting him will accomplish, but the fact that he's alive and happily leading a normal life while so many people are dead, while I am scrabbling around in the scraps of society, while they're doing god knows what with all that medical research… it's just not right.

February 22nd

Now don't laugh dear diary, but my latest passion is juggling. Amongst my literary haul the other night was 'The Art Of Juggling' by Ken Benge. I felt oddly drawn to it, and the early chapters really didn't offer me anything I didn't already know – so I'm hypothesizing that I've actually studied this book in my past life.

If I didn't, then I'm just absurdly talented at juggling, because within a couple of hours I was well into the 'advanced' chapter and deftly tossing five balls. I started with oranges actually, but have since acquired myself a couple of sets of proper beanbag juggling balls. They're easier to handle than the fruit and I've managed to add a sixth ball with a fair degree of success.

The world record stands at twelve balls for twelve catches so I've got some way to go before I can make a career from my juggling genius, but I'm enjoying myself immensely and can justify it as good physical therapy too!   


February 23rd

Do I want my memory to come back? The more time that passes, the more I'm not bothered if it does or not. Veering towards not wanting it to. The prospect of waking up as a different person is very odd. I'm not the same person physically, why should I be the same person mentally?

What if I were married? Would I return to her? I couldn't force this body upon anyone.

What of my mutations? Without exception, they are beneficial and to lose any of them would be like losing one of the five main senses.

I'd like to remember things as a child, it seems to be such a profound part of people's lives. But the thing is, if my memory came back, the old me and the new me would collide, creating a new person that I have yet to meet. And that's an extremely scary prospect.

February 24th

Forgive me, dear diary, if I'm a bit fuzzy tonight. I awoke this morning to my face throbbing, hurting so much more than normal. Another flare up, like the one I had in hospital. I prised the mask off, made difficult by my poor swollen nose being almost stuck in its indentation, and immediately sought relief from a cold washcloth, to little effect. Delving into my stash of painkillers, I took far too many and chased them down with half a bottle of Glenfiddich.

It must have had the desired effect, as I just awoke on the floor and my head feels as though a bear has shat in it. The face still hurts, but it seems my amateur pharmacology has taken the edge off somewhat. I can't get the mask back on though… if the swelling hasn't subsided by tomorrow I think I'll have to go and get more steroid injections.

February 25th

If you ever need to become invisible it seems that all you need to do is stand on a street corner selling the Big Issue. I thought I had it bad, but at least people acknowledge my existence by quickly getting out of my way.

I always buy a copy. I know how it feels to be homeless, even if it was only for a few nights. Though technically, a guest house isn't exactly 'home', I've got a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in because I kicked my principles aside and started stealing. I've got immense respect for anyone who's trying to get themselves back on their feet within the confines of the law – they are better men than me.

It's also pleasant to have a conversation with another human. Strange how my fellow rejects from society seem more inclined to accept me as I am than the 'normal' people are. Maybe it's just because I buy a magazine, don't ask for change and am generous with my cigarettes. Or maybe non-judgemental interaction is as much a novelty for them as it is for me, and they're quite happy to stand and chat with a man in a strange mask.

February 26th

I've become an excellent burglar.

I'm quick and I'm quiet. No-one ever manages to creep up on me, and if they did, I'm confident that could deal with them without even breaking a sweat.

I leave no fingerprints. No incriminating hairs or skin cells to be questioned for their DNA secrets.

I get in, I get what I need, I get out. No-one sees me, no-one hears me. No problem. 

February 27th

The news is full of talk about an unknown virus that's hit a dozen or so kids from a school in the centre of town. Hopefully it's just another bird flu type scare like we had last month.

I'm thinking about looking for a flat. Enough money is being made from my shopping trips that I should be able to afford the rent on somewhere small, and I have a real longing for a bathtub. Maybe with a bit more room I could start some kind of legitimate business and earn some honest money. Mail order something or other, become a take away food critic, something stupid like that. I must be good at something more useful than juggling, darts and reading quickly, I just wish I could remember what it is.

Oh yes, almost forgot. Seven balls. I rule. 

February 28th

I went for a follow up appointment at the hospital today.

They were pleased with the progress the grafts have made, impressed by the range of motion I've managed to regain. Whilst I still get twinges and stiffness here and there, I can move almost as I could before the fire.

I removed the mask in the company of other people for the first time in many weeks. They took it from me to make a few adjustments and it felt like losing a limb. I can't believe how attached to it I have become, after only a month of wear

"Will this grow back?" I asked, pointing to my nostrils, where the burn has destroyed some of the cartilage.

"No," said one of the burn staff. "But there is surgery we can do." I am lucky, she told me. The burns across my nose are very deep. 

"But you still have the bridge of your nose," she said. "Some people -- it burns off completely."

I'm glad my eyes didn't get burned. Glad I had the chance to protect them.

In the lift on the way down from the burn floor, a slender young woman gave me a long, unflinching look.

"When were you burned?" she asked. The tip of a ropelike scar clawed along her clavicle, just visible beneath her open collar.

"Four months ago," I mumbled.

"Mine was a year ago," she said. "You should see my friend. Her face was just like yours. She had that mask and everything, and she looks so great."

Her voice was soft, but insistent. It was as though there was no one else in the elevator, as though she had a lot she wanted to say, and only eight floors to go.

"They just fixed her nose because one of her nostrils was crooked,"

"Mine is too," I said. I was actually looking at her, oblivious to the rest of the people pressed with their backs against the elevator walls.

"I think you look good," she said as the elevator doors slide open.

I actually held my head up and smiled. Not that she could see my grin.

_That's it for now folks – I won't say it's finished cos I may well continue the diary when I get a chance to do so, but the daily postings are over for now. Please do review!_


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